“We
don’t see things as they are; we see them as we are” -The Talmud
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| View from a chair |
Dearest
Readers,
Recently,
I listened to an American journalist in Havana assessing the mood of that
country after the death of Fidel Castro. She spoke of a mix of sadness and
nonchalance among those she interviewed, and the sorry state of the country’s
economy. Amazingly, the interviewer shared an observation that Cuban farmers in
the rural areas, despite their poverty, exuded a remarkable tranquility (her
word). She left it at that without any further elaboration. Tranquility! I
couldn’t remember ever hearing that word used on the news. It seeped into my
brain and my bones.
Each
morning I sit in a cushioned kitchen chair for a few minutes, and stare out my
bedroom
window through a patch of congealed vapor at the trees below (I’m on a hill),
and at the vastness of the sky scribbled with clouds. I meditate a bit, and
then I recite a decade of the rosary adjusted for my intentions of the day. A
decade is a grouping of 10 beads for 10 Hail
Marys, and one large bead for an Our
Father and a Glory Be. I pepper
the prayers with more secular words, and good wishes for my three kids, six grandkids,
and future generations, with special thanks to my parents and grandparents who
got me here.
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| The tranquility of being Etta |
I
begin my day with the pleasures of reading in bed while drinking my one
half-caff coffee, feeling Etta James’ little body curled next to my legs, and
in due time, rubbing her belly when she rolls over with paws curled in begging
position. A good start.
Being
tranquil is hard to do in our speedy world. I have an advantage in this search.
I’m retired, I limit my “to-do’s” and I paint when I want to. I volunteer occasionally, see friends and find that I can voice my opinions easily.
Having
the responsibility of raising kids, or a job with deadlines, driving in
traffic, or being on time are not so important now-a-days. I don’t need to
control so many things. My daily walks are like praying, by imbibing calmness with
the sun, snow and air. Simple stuff.
Last
month Becky Jensen, the director of our Peacham Library filled a display case
with books on kindness and character as an antidote to the lack of civil dialog
during the presidential campaign. I’m reading one of them–The Wisdom of Donkeys, by
Andy Merrifield, with the subhead, Finding
Tranquility in a Chaotic World. He wrote it in 2006.
Andy
is an x-New York City writer of newspaper and magazine opinion articles who
escaped the chaos, (his description) and now lives and writes in the rural Auvergne district of
France. The book recounts a summer journey he took on foot up and down the
forest and village paths of that area, leading Gribouille, a gentle, soft-eyed
donkey, who carried his gear. It seems donkeys are masters of the art of tranquility. You cannot
force one to rush or to proceed when it senses danger. They are patient and
all-suffering. Merrifield moved at Gribouille’s pace, talked to passers-by, sat
with his coffee at outdoor cafes while his companion nibbled quietly near a
hitching post. It was life-changing.
I
have tranquility sometimes, more than in the past, but it’s not the norm. I
can’t say I’ve “reached” it yet. (There’s that oxymoronical “itch” again.) Tranquility
can’t be a goal, I think. It’s just is a simple state of being. Ahhhh
“The
essential is invisible to the eyes.” -the fox in Saint-Exupery’s The Little Prince
